I collect the debris in the hem of my skirt:
stones, glass, clay – they fit into my frame.
Stones  go to make the backbone,
one below the other like the cobbled path in the garden;
ash settles in the crevices, blown from the sea
where death remains docked; smoke like clouds,
evidence of dissolution, fills the nose and eyes;
swarm of desires embellished by answers unsought
crumbles, turns powder in my hands.
Then the child that I bore in the silence of my self
lights the flame and pours clarified butter, 
priest chants of things temporary that unmake the universe.  

(To know the meaning of the Sanskrit word ‘Mithyā’ please go here and here.
To understand the Sankrit word ‘Mithyā’ as it occurs in the Vedanta go

Big Tent Poetry

8 thoughts on “Mithyā

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